Crystallization
by YL
Summary: [Ichigo x Rukia] Love can turn into madness... but madness can also, because of love, turn into perfection. ONE SHOT


_I call 'crystallization' that action of the mind that discovers fresh perfections in its beloved at every turn of events.__  
- _**_Stendhal_**

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Crystallization

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"Hell Butterflies…"

"Yes…"

"There's so many of them."

Blissfully unaware of the Hell Butterflies' significance today, he continued leisurely resting his head on her lap while she lightly stroked his hair. Peacefully, he watched how those black butterflies flutter in swarms to form a beautiful arc against the sky, leaving trails of their blue lucent glow behind them.

"_Please, with all due respect Sir, I believe…"_

"_You will leave him. That's final."_

"_I don't think that…"_

"_What you_ think_ is of no importance compared to what is imperative for the balance of the world. Kuchiki-san, as a member of one of the four Noble Houses, you should fully understand the consequences of your willful actions. This time, the Committee will, without hesitation, take appropriate actions against you if you chose to carry on with this aberrant behavior."_

"_I…"_

"_Our leniency towards your case has been exceptionally gracious due to repeated pleas from your brother, Kuchiki-Taichou, whom we have great respect for. However, we can no longer continue to condone such insolence from a family of honor. This has gone on long enough, Kuchiki-san, and this will be our last ultimatum for you. I believe you are wise enough to understand."_

"_Sir…"_

"_You're dismissed."_

There was no room for contention and there was little she could have said. The weight of her family's name lay on her shoulders. It seemed a little despicable for them to force this upon her by using the Kuchiki's name, but it would not change the fact that she was, indeed, a Kuchiki. "Appropriate actions" would very likely, refer to her exile, but exile was not an option. It would besmirch the good name of the Kuchiki family and leave an indelible stain on its reputable history. Her prior sentence of execution had already caused enough damage and she had sworn upon the family's name that she would never again force them to tolerate any form of dishonorable punishment because of her.

If she had the absolute freedom, she would be willing to give up everything, but she understood her selfishness would have consequences that others would have to bear for her.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong."

He got up to look straight at her in the face, his frown deepening with doubt. More often than not, he was oblivious to things like that, but when it came to her, it was nearly like he could read her like a book. He might not necessarily know what was on her mind, but he would always sense that something was wrong. It was uncanny, how he well he reacted to her little emotional fluctuations. And it always surprised her that she, the person who prided herself as the stoic, detached shinigami, would let her guard down so completely in front of him. And that she would always be so unbelievably vulnerable to those brown eyes of his, which was now telling her that he could feel her unease and that he demanded to know why.

He was about to speak, but knowing that his voice would unquestionably draw tears from her eyes, she lunged towards him in an uncharacteristically forceful embrace, pushing him onto the ground and pressing her lips fiercely against his. He tensed momentarily from surprise, but his tongue instinctively licked hers and just as fervently, he returned her kisses, like he could taste her insuppressible desperation. She rubbed her face against the crook of his neck, ran her tongue against the lobe of his ear and then bit hard into his neck until it bruised. She knew it hurt, more than usual, but he gave no indication. It was her mark of obsessive possession and that much, he always understood and he always gave in to her obstinate and compulsive ways. And it was not like he was really kind either, for he too, always left his mark behind. He called it equivalent exchange.

"Don't cry."

She had not realized that her tears had come despite her determination not to cry. And they were falling like droplets of clear rain onto his face, rolling down his cheeks and leaving salty trails on his smooth, tanned skin. It was beautiful, watching how the tiny beads of tears that were caught in his dark lashes glittered like a scatter of perfectly spherical crystals. And it was so beautiful that she could not stop the tears from coming. The tears on his face, in his eyes, on his lashes… it was like he was sharing her tears, perfecting her flaws and taking in her everything without question. Gently, he pulled her into the warm enclosure of his chest and arms, hushing her.

It was not the first time she cried. She cried a lot actually, especially around him, although she never entirely understood the reasons behind her tears. Perhaps it was always the rush of emotions that invaded her relentlessly as he touched her, kissed her and made love to her. The feelings that was so raw, so foreign and so strange beyond words. It was an overpowering, complicated feeling that suffocated her, but it was also an intensely fierce passion that she wished would never end.

It would always become a contradicting clash of thoughts, where she would wish for time to never stop, that this addictive assault of emotions would never end.

And yet, she would also wish for time to freeze.

For time to freeze at that moment of ideality, a moment that was perfect like a faultless lamb being brought to slaughter. A crude comparison, some would say, but that was the way it was for her. She was the lamb and he was the slayer, drawing out her meat and blood mercilessly. But she cherished every second of this punishing act of masochism that he unknowingly bestowed upon her, cherishing every second even if it placed her closer and closer to absolute emotional death each time. To her, their existence was for a very simple reason; for each other's existence. She existed for him and he existed for her. She would give up everything to love him. She would allow him to drive her mad, to drink her dry, to bring her to the precipice of oblivion, as long as it permitted her to continue on in this paradoxical concurrent existence of emotional life and death.

But that was ideality.

Love was nothing but an ephemeral taste of utopia. And utopia was, after all, nothing more than imaginary.

Pitiful that she had allowed herself to sink so deep into the agonies of such useless sentiments, but this love was like a hurricane, sucking in and destroying everything in its path. Few would understand the insanity of his immoderate love that she could not withdraw from. But still, few would take the time to understand.

Their desperate love was without salvation.

Or perhaps, rather, they did not wish to be saved.

They would rather drown in their imaginary state of utopia than to be pulled back into reality.

She took out a lighter from the pockets of the yellow dress that he had gotten for her during their two-year anniversary celebration nine weeks ago. She had wanted the gold and bronze Celtic ring she saw in the display window of a shop downtown, but he said it was too expensive for him to afford it, so he got her this dress instead. He promised her the ring next year, when his bank account allowed him to buy two; one for him and one for her.

Next year.

There would be no next year.

"What are you…"

A flash of her lighter cut his sentence off. The butterflies flitted away with the flare, as they were after all, just there to monitor that she performed what was required of her. She knew they were watching, but it did not deter her from her unrestrained display of affections. He had thought the butterflies were pretty and there was no point in spoiling the moment for him because of some worthless pride.

The worthless pride that she had so tenaciously held on to for so many years had, oddly, became of no value to her. She had thrown it all away, when she met him, chose him and loved him.

After all those countless years of upholding her pride as a shinigami of the Kuchiki family, she had become nothing but a simple woman who was in love with a human. A couple of years ago, she would have mocked at even the slightest possibility of such a disgraceful fall. She lived in a world of ordinance, a world where emotions were pointless and dispensable. But she had chosen to discard those standards of conduct and succumb to sentiments. He had changed her and she had changed for him.

And to think that in the end, she would still turn back and adhere to those regulations that she, no, _they_ had so strongly despised and fought so valiantly against.

He was struggling to focus his eyes on her, like he wanted to etch her image into his mind before he could lose it. But it would be of no use. She had used one of the best memory changers to undo his memory of her. It was cruel, changing the past of a man without his consent, changing it like the past had never been. But it was a necessary execution, in order for her to step out of his life, and in order for him to step out of hers.

His mouth was forming her name but his voice failed him. It pained her, seeing him struggle to speak the name that he was quickly forgetting. He wanted to call her one last time and she wanted to hear him one last time. But the spell was not so kind.

She laid her head against his chest, quietly listening to the beautiful rhythm of his heartbeat that was slowing to its resting rate, as he continued the futile battle of keeping his consciousness. And as she kept listening to the sounds of his heart beating slowly, and feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, she knew he had finally fallen into a deep stupor. And she knew he shall awake without the memories of her. And there will be missing pieces of his past that he will never be able to fill, but those missing pieces will just remain as unsolved mysteries and he will move on.

Life will go on, with or without her.

That was the brutality that she would have to live with.

She had no idea how long she laid there, but when she finally sat up, she pulled out the switchblade that he kept at his back pocket. Without flinching, she purposefully brought the knife down and carved a mark down the back of his hand, starting from his wrist right up to his thumb. It was their secret sign of love that she had invented. He had said it was stupid, but nevertheless, he would draw that sign everywhere; on his occasional cards of love, on the frosted windows of shops, on the sands of beaches or on the grounds covered with snow.

It was an unspoken declaration of their love.

Calmly, she watched the wound bleed onto her palm and clothes. The cut was not deep, but it would scar, she had no doubt about that. She took his wounded hand and kissed it lightly, allowing the crimson fluid to touch her lips, licking some of it off her mouth so that she could taste the delectable metallic flavor of her lover. It was nearly ironic at that moment – the slain lamb drinking from the sleeping slayer.

Taking the knife that was now stained with his blood, she rolled up her sleeve and pressed the blade against her pale skin, refusing to let out even the slightest wince as she resolutely carved the same mark against her once flawless arm. She then ran her fingertips against her wound and touched her bloodied fingers onto his lips, almost like a ceremonious exchange of bodily fluids.

"Equivalent exchange", that was what he would call it.

She leaned down and kissed his sleeping form deeply, the blood on their lips mingling till she could no longer tell which was hers and which was his. They were one. She was thankful that the hell butterflies were gone, for what she had just done would appear ghastly sick to the people of the committee. But perhaps love had driven them mad. It might not have been apparent, but their frighteningly possessive nature, without a doubt, rivaled each other, and rivaled all those around them. And the deliberate marking of each other's body, was their mutually agreed form of proclamation of love and possession.

She stood up, satisfied with the warmth of his lips against hers, the taste of his blood upon her tongue and the mark of their love engraved permanently onto both of them.

He was hers and she was his. Time will not be able to take that away from either of them. He may never remember her, _will_ never remember her, but she would take his share and hold on to their precious memories. It was cruel, but there was nothing more that could be done.

"Till we meet again, my love."

_x . x . x_

Their eyes met, a calm indigo meeting a startled brown.

"What the…" He took a step back and his widened eyes fixated on the small woman who had nearly crashed right into him when she emerged through the wall of his bedroom. Disconcerted, he ran a hand through his orange hair that was still damp from the shower. "Did you just… No, I mean… Do you need help?"

She raised a questioning eyebrow. "Help?"

He nodded politely. "To pass on."

She was aware of his discomfort, which was probably arising less from her sudden uninvited appearance but more from the fact that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. She smiled. "I'm a shinigami."

"Shinigami?"

"We send off wandering spirits. Or help them pass on, as you put it."

He briefly scanned her whole attire, his eyes pausing momentarily at the sword that was hanging by her hips. "Oh. But this the first time I've seen a shinigami."

"Well," she cocked her head with an easy smile on her pale, porcelain-like face, "it probably means that your spiritual power has increased, although there could be a myriad of reasons for that happening."

He frowned, with an evident look of contemplation on his face and a carefully concealed contemptuous skepticism in his eyes. He crossed his arms, his sudden movement causing a light chink of his necklace's pendants, which were a pair of gold and bronze Celtic rings. "You seem a lot less surprised than I am. Is it common? You know, that people see you?"

"Well, it happens. Not often, but it happens." She then offered her hand in a handshake. "Hi, I'm Kuchiki Rukia and I'm a shinigami."

Returning her surprisingly open gesture, he quickly extended his hand as well, which had a faded but distinct scar running from his wrist up to his thumb. "Kurosaki Ichigo. A pediatrician."

Their hands connected.

Reset.

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-YL-

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**Post-Chapter Notes: **  
That was weird.

Probably after reading Tokyo Babylon.

And watching Lain.

Well, more of Tokyo Babylon, really. Lain's just the ending.

I hope you liked it. Although may seem a little… disturbing perhaps, but it is called crystallization. Perfecting all the imperfections.

Thanks for reading:)

_.Goes back to studying for exams that are coming up next week ._


End file.
